Mister B. Gone (9 page)

So now you know about my love affair. It was brief and bitter, and all the better for that.

Love is a lie; love of every shape and size, except perhaps the love of an infant for its mother. That’s real. At least until the milk dries up.

Thus I was delivered from the love of beautiful women, and traveled all the quicker for its unloading. I had no trouble losing Hacker and Shamit as they attempted to pursue me into the depths of the forest. I was lighthearted, or rather lighter by the measure of two hearts, mine and hers, and I ran so easily through the thicket, bounding up the trunks of the antediluvian trees and jumping from branch to branch, tree to tree, that I quickly lost my confused pursuers completely.

The sensible thing would have been for me to get out of the area there and then, under cover of darkness. But I couldn’t do that. I’d heard too many tantalizing hints about what was going to happen back down on Joshua’s field come the dawn. Cawley had talked about the burning of some Archbishop, along with, if I’d understood him correctly, a number of sodomitic animals, who were apparently found culpable under holy law for passively allowing these perversions to be performed upon them. A spectacle such as this would surely draw a sizable crowd of Humankind, amongst whose numbers I hoped I might hide while I educated myself in their ways.

I passed the remainder of the night in a tree some distance from the grove where I’d met poor Caroline. I lay along the length of a branch and was lulled to sleep by the creak of the ancient limbs and the soft murmur of the wind in the leaves. I was wakened by the rattle and boom of drums. I leapt down from my bed, taking a moment to thank the tree for its hospitality by vigorously pissing on and poisoning those small upstarts in its vicinity that might have competed for the older tree’s share of earth. Then I followed the sound of the drumming out to the fringes of the forest. As the trees thinned I found that I had emerged close to the edge of a boulder-strewn slope, at the bottom of which lay a broad muddy field lit by a purple-grey light that steadily brightened, as though summoned by the vigorous tattoo of the drums. Shortly, the sun appeared, and I saw that there were great numbers of people gathered in the field below, many rising from the misty ground where they’d passed the night like Lazarus’ kin, stretching, yawning, scratching, and turning up their faces to the radiant sky.

I couldn’t go amongst them yet, of course. Not in my naked state. They’d see the curious configuration of my feet and, more importantly, my tails. I’d be in trouble. But with some mud to cover my feet and some simple garments to wear, I could pass, I hoped, for any human who’d been burned as calamitously as I.

So all I needed in order to venture down onto the field and have my first encounter with Humankind were clothes.

I used the gloom of the cloudy dawn to cautiously descend the slope, moving from boulder to boulder as I got closer to the field itself. As I slid out of sight behind a stone twice my height and three times my length were I to have lain in its shadow, I discovered that the place had already been claimed by not one, but two people. They were lying down, but they weren’t interested in assessing the length of the rock.

They were young, these two; young enough to be ready for love at such an early hour, and indifferent to the discomforts of their hiding place: the littered stone shards, the dew-wet grass.

Though I was crouched no more than three strides from where they lay, neither the girl, who to judge by her fine clothes was a good thief or came of a rich family, or her lover, who was either a bad thief or came of a poor family, noticed me. They were too busy removing all outward sign of fortune and family, and, equal in their nakedness, played that blissful game of matching their bodies, part to part.

They quickly found what fit best. Their laughter gave way to whispers and solemnity, as though this common deed had something holy in it; that in marrying their flesh this way they were performing some holy rite.

Their passion riled me, especially when I was obliged to view it so soon after the fiasco with Caroline. That said, I want to tell you I had no intention of killing them. I just wanted the youth’s clothes, to cover the evidence of my own ancestry. But they were using his clothes and hers to lie more comfortably on the uneven ground, and it was quickly apparent that they would not be finished any time soon. If I wanted the clothes I would have to pull them out from under the pair.

I crept towards them, hands outstretched, hoping, I swear, that I’d be able to snatch his clothes out from under them while they were glued together, and be away before—

Never mind. The point is, it didn’t happen the way I planned it. Nothing ever has now that I think of it. Nothing in my whole existence has come out the way I wanted it to.

The girl, idiot beauty that she was, whispered something in the youth’s ear, and they rolled over, away from the boulder behind which all three of us were concealed, and off the very clothes I wanted. I didn’t give them time to roll back, but reached out and very slowly, so as not to draw their attention, began to pull them towards me. At that moment the girl did as she’d doubtless whispered she wanted to do. She rolled them over again and clambered on top of him, sitting on his loins to take her pleasure. In doing so her gaze found me, and she opened her mouth to scream, only to remember before the sound emerged that she was in hiding here.

Luckily she had her heroic partner beneath her, and sensing through the girl’s sudden tightening of her muscles that all was not well he opened his eyes and looked directly at me.

Even then, if I could have snatched the youth’s clothes and made my escape I would have done so. But no. Nothing in my life has been easy and this little business was no exception. The heroic fool—no doubt seeking to win the girl’s undying devotion—slid out from under her and reached for the knife lying amongst his clothes.

“Don’t!” I said.

I did, I swear on all things unholy, I warned him with that one word.

He didn’t listen, of course. He was doing this in full sight of his lady-love. He had to be brave, whatever the cost.

He pulled the knife from its sheath. It was a stubby little thing, like his bobbing manhood.

Even then I said, “There’s no need to fight. I just want your shirt and pants.”

“Well, you can’t have them.”

“Be careful, Martin,” the girl said, looking at me now. “He’s not human.”

“Yes, he is,” the lover said, jabbing at me with his knife. “He’s just burned is all.”

“No, Martin! Look! He’s got tails! He’s got two tails!”

Apparently the hero had missed this detail, so I helped him by raising them up to either side of my head, their points directed at him.

“Jesus protect me,” he said, and before his courage failed him he lunged at me.

Much to my surprise, he actually sank that little knife of his into my chest, all the way to the hilt, then twisted it as he drew it out. It pained me and I cried out, which only made him laugh.

That was too much. The knife I could take, even when he turned it. But to laugh? At me? Oh no. That marked an unforgivable level of insult. I reached out and caught hold of the blade, seizing it with all my strength. Even though it was slick with my blood, I only had to twist it sharply in his grip and I had it from him, easy as tying a knot in a baby’s tongue.

I glanced down at the little blade and tossed it away. The youth looked puzzled.

“I don’t need that little thing to kill you. I don’t even need my hands. My tails can strangle you both, while I chew on my fingernails. ”

Hearing this the youth sensibly dropped to his knees, and even more sensibly proceeded to beg.

“Please, sir,” he said, “have mercy. I see the error of my ways now. I do! We both do! We shouldn’t have been fornicating. And on a Holy Day!”

“What makes this day holy?”

“The new Archbishop declared it a holiday in celebration of the great fires which will be lit at eight to consume twenty-nine sinners, including—”

“The former Archbishop,” I guessed.

“He’s my father,” the girl said, and perhaps out of some tardy respect for her parentage she did her best to cover her nakedness.

“Don’t bother,” I told her. “I couldn’t care less about you.”

“All demons are sodomites, aren’t they? That’s what my father says.”

“Well, he’s wrong. And how is it a man of the church has a daughter?”

“He has many children. I’m just his favorite.” She became briefly distracted, as if by memories of his indulgences. Then she said: “You’re not a sodomite?”

“No. My soul lost its one true companion but a few hours ago, in that forest. It will be days, perhaps even a week, before I recover the appetite to look at another woman.”

“My father would have you cut to pieces by children. That’s what he did with the last demon that came here.”

“Children?”

“Yes. Tots of three and four. He gave them little knives, and told them there’d be sweetmeats for the one who was the cruelest.”

“He’s quite the innovator, isn’t he?”

“Oh, he’s a genius. And much loved by the Pope. He expects soon to be raised to high office in Rome. I want so much for it to happen, so that I can go with him.”

“Then shouldn’t you be at Mass, praying for some heavenly intercession, instead of hiding behind a rock with . . .” I glanced at the youth while searching for an appropriate word of contempt.

But before I could finish my sentence the idiot charged at me, his head down, butting me in the stomach. He was quick, I’ll give him that. I was caught off guard, and his blow threw me to the ground.

Before I could get up, he dug his heel into the wound he had made with that stubby little blade of his. It hurt, more than a little, and my cry of pain drew laughter from him.

“Is that paining you, little demon?” he crowed. “Then how about
this
?” He drove his foot down on my face, grinding away while I continued to cry out. He was having a fine time. The girl, meanwhile, had started to offer up chaotic entreaties to any heavenly agent who might intercede on her behalf:

“Please Angels of Mercy, Virgin Mother, Martyrs on High, give me your protection, O God in Heaven, forgive me my sins, I beg you, I don’t want to burn in hell.”

“Shut up!” I yelled to her from beneath her lover’s heel.

But on she went: “I will say ten thousand Hail Marys; I will pay for a hundred flagellants to crawl on their knees to Rome. I will live in celibacy if that’s what you want from me. But please, don’t let me die and my soul be taken by this abomination.”

That was too much. I may not be the loveliest thing the girl had laid her eyes on, but an
abomination
? No. That I was not.

Enraged, I caught hold of the foot of the youth, and pushed it into the air, shoving him backwards with all the force I possessed. I heard a crack as his head struck the boulder, and quickly got to my feet, ready to exchange further blows with him. But none was needed. He was sliding down the face of the boulder, the back of his head trailing blood from the place where his skull had burst against the stone. His eyes were open, but he saw neither me nor his lady-love, nor any other thing in this world.

I quickly snatched his clothes off the ground before his corpse sank down and bled upon them.

The girl had stopped her entreaties and was staring at the dead youth.

“It was an accident,” I told her. “I had no intention of . . .”

She opened her mouth.

“Don’t scream,” I said.

She screamed. Christ, how she screamed. It was a wonder the birds didn’t drop from the sky, slaughtered by that scream.

I didn’t try and stop her. I would have only ended up knocking the life out of her, and she was too lovely, even in her hysterical state, to lose her young life.

I put the dead youth’s clothes on as quickly as I could. They stunk of his humanity, his doubt, his lust, his stupidity; all of it was in the threads of his shirt. I don’t even want to tell you what his trousers stunk of. Still, he was bigger than I, which was useful. I was able to curl up my tails and stuff them down the trousers, one against each buttock, which effectively concealed them. While his clothes had been too big for me, his boots were too small, so I was obliged to leave them and go barefoot. My feet were recognizable demonatic, scaly and three clawed, but I would have to take the risk of their being noticed.

The girl—do I have need to mention?—was still screaming, though I’d done nothing to make her fear me beside my casual remark about strangling her with my tail and accidentally smashing her lover-boy’s skull. It was only when I approached her that she ceased her din.

“If you torture me—”

“I have to—”

“My father will send assassins after you, all the way back to Hell. They’ll crucify you upside down and roast you over a slow fire. ”

“I have no fear of nails,” I said. “Or of flames. And your father’s assassins will not find me in Hell, so don’t send them looking. They’ll only be eaten alive. Or worse.”

“What’s worse than being eaten alive?” the girl said, her eyes widening, not with horror but with curiosity.

Her question tested my memory and found it wanting. As a child I’d been able to rattle off the Forty-seven Torments in ascending order of agony at such speed and so completely free of error that I had been considered something of a prodigy.

But now I could barely recall more than a dozen agonies on the list.

“Just take it from me,” I said, “there’s much worse than being eaten. And if you want to save innocents from suffering, then you’ll keep your mouth shut and pretend you never laid eyes on me.”

She stared back at me with all the sparkling intelligence of a maggot. I decided to waste no further time with her. I picked her clothes up from the ground.

“I’m taking these with me,” I told her.

“I’ll freeze to death.”

“No, you won’t. The sun’s getting warm now.”

“But I’ll still be naked.”

“Yes, you will. And unless you want to walk through the crowd down there in your present state, you’ll stay here, out of sight, until somebody comes to find you.”